


you've got a warm heart, you've got a beautiful brain

by littleoldrachel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Christmas, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Supportive relationships!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 18:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleoldrachel/pseuds/littleoldrachel
Summary: "Christmas is always a difficult time of year for her, no matter how many years in recovery she clocks up."In which Luna struggles with the festive season, Ginny is the supportive girlfriend we all wish we had, and there's very little actual plot, it's mostly just fluffy and gay.





	you've got a warm heart, you've got a beautiful brain

Christmas is always a difficult time of year for her, no matter how many years in recovery she clocks up. It’s been a better year than most, but recovery is not linear, she should know this by now. She should know that her demons always come crawling back at the first chords of _that_ Mariah Carey song, that the _obsessive_ focus on food – and not just food, but an _excess_ of food – will trigger her unhealthiest coping mechanisms, that something about holidays seems to give the world permission to comment upon her appearance, and that her brain will somehow twist even the most well-meant compliments against her.

She’s been doing remarkably well so far – a change of medication, a fresh start at CBT, and the endless love and support from the Best Girlfriend in the World mean that she’s managed most of December with only one food-related breakdown.

This week though, it feels like everything’s out to get her – it’s been a _crazy_ work week, commissions coming left, right and centre, and people just _not_ grasping that she can’t create what they’re demanding in a day, no matter how much cash they throw at it. On top of her workload, there’s the added pressure of Christmas shopping – which, by the way, she still hasn’t finished, and she doesn’t know how she’s going to face the crowds, but she _has to_ , else she has to explain to her girlfriend of almost four years why she hasn’t got her a present… And then there’s the million and one little things, that are tugging her in a thousand different directions, stretching her thinner and thinner (which is fucking ironic, considering that she feels like she’s _ballooning_ ) – the worry about travelling to her dad’s, the panic at having to spend Christmas Day _surrounded_ by people at the Weasley household, the way that all her coping mechanisms have taken a backseat to carol singing, Christmas baking, pub meets…

It’s a lot.

In fact, it’s so much that there’s a near constant weight buried in her chest, and it’s so _heavy_ and _unyielding_ and like hundreds of tiny wires are slicing in to her lungs, ripping her apart from the inside out, and she can’t – she can’t – she _can’t –_

She throws her pencil at the sketchpad in frustration, and it bounces off, clattering to the floor somewhere. It’s struck straight through the rough design she’s been working on for the last two hours, but the sketch was _useless_ anyway. She tears it out, scrunches it in to a tight ball, and hurls it to join her pencil.

Luna presses her palms in to her eyes, _willing_ herself not to cry – and failing, because she’s _useless, useless, useless._ The tears drip down her cheeks, and she knows she’s teetering on the edge of a panic attack – knows that she needs to call someone, or practice one of those breathing techniques, or go for a walk or _something_ that isn’t sitting here and wallowing in it, but she can’t seem to _move_ , everything is _so much, she can’t –_

The sound of the phone is an unpleasant pull back to reality, and she lets it ring and ring, because having to talk to someone right now suddenly seems like the biggest effort in the world ( _she can’t_ ). Eventually it reaches the answerphone.

(She and Ginny had recorded a message together – because Ginny had suggested it as a joke – “we can be one of those gross couples” – but Luna knew how much Ginny loved those kind of stupid things, and how much it had meant to her that she’d gone along with it. She can hear the smile in Ginny’s voice as she chirps to ‘leave a message after the beep,’ and the happiness in her own voice makes her feel as though she’s listening to a different person entirely.)

Finally, Molly Weasley’s voice echoes around the room, and Luna squeezes her eyes shut against it.

“ _Ginny, dear, everybody is getting here for one tomorrow – we probably won’t sit down to eat before three, because you know how Christmas Day is… oh, and Percy had a change of plans – he’s not going to Penny’s anymore, so there’ll be thirty-five or so of us – a full house! It’ll be so lovely to see you again, it’s been too long, and Luna, of course. I_ do _hope she’s not going to be awkward about food this year… Anyway, I look forward to seeing you both tomorrow… Merry Christmas, sweetie.”_

Later, Luna will be able to look back on this seemingly innocent phone call, and recognise it as the straw that broke the camel’s back. Later, she will pick apart in therapy exactly what it was that triggered the _spiral_ of self-loathing like concrete in her stomach, the sobbing, shuddering panic attack that lasts and lasts and _will not end._ Later, this will be an experience that she can look back on, and say _I didn’t relapse, I made it, everything is okay._

For now, though – she sits, and cries, and chokes on gasps of air, because she’s “awkward about food” and she _knew_ that she was a burden – she fucking _knew_ it, and everyone who has spent hours convincing her otherwise was fucking wrong, and she _hates_ herself – everything about herself, she’s huge and awful and inconvenient and Too Much –

She’s tugging at her hair – long, stringy, white-blonde, utterly uninteresting like everything else about her – when a hand closes around her wrist and gently untangles it from her fingers.

“Lu? Angel, what happened?”

Ginny is kneeling in front of her – her cheeks are flushed-pink from the nip of the winter wind, her hair a mess from being bundled under her beanie, she looks tired and cold and anxious – but still somehow utterly, devastatingly gorgeous.

“Luna?” Ginny says again, a little more urgently, and Luna reaches out to touch Ginny’s cheek. Ginny cups a hand over Luna’s, holding it in place, and then presses a kiss to her palm. “What’s going on, baby?”

Luna takes a breath – it’s so much easier now that Ginny’s here, but she’s suddenly horribly aware that she’s snotty and streaky with tears. She wipes a sleeve across her face, takes another breath, and draws her knees in tight to her chest.

(A couple of years ago, she would have struggled to articulate this to anyone, let alone to Ginny. A couple of years ago, the thought of someone loving her as fiercely and as passionately as Ginny loves her, would have been completely incomprehensible. A couple of years ago, this would probably have spiralled in to a full-blown relapse. Now, she will stand strong in the knowledge that articulating this will not make Ginny think any less of her, that Ginny _loves_ her, that she will get through this and be okay again).

Ginny loops an arm around her waist, leads Luna to the armchair by the fireplace, and pulls her down in to her lap. Luna curls up against Ginny’s chest, and Ginny presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, trailing her fingertips soothingly down Luna’s back, like a kitten. Something in Luna’s chest loosens a little, and warmth trickles in to the gap it creates, because this is _safe_ and _familiar_ and _comfortable_.

“Your mum rang,” she says eventually, and Ginny’s hand stills for a second, before continuing smoothly. “And something she said – it just – I know it sounds silly, it wasn’t even _meant_ like that, but it just struck a nerve, I suppose.”

(One of the things Luna loves most about Ginny is how _well_ she knows her; Ginny knows that Luna doesn’t need her to interrupt her, to tell her that she _doesn’t_ sound silly, that what she needs is to sound things out herself, in order to make sense of her thought processes, because Ginny understands how muddled and muddied they can become sometimes).

When Luna is done explaining that it’s been such a _hard_ week, and how overwhelmed and stretched-thin she’s feeling, and how the message tipped everything over the edge, and now the thought of having to sit down and eat a Christmas dinner is too much, too much, too much –

When she’s finally finished, Ginny presses another kiss to her forehead, and says, “thank you, angel. Do you mind if I listen to the message?”

Luna shakes her head, and shifts to allow Ginny to reach across to the phone. Ginny frowns when she hears Molly’s voice, her confusion growing as the message runs its course. Luna sees rather than hears the moment when Ginny _gets it_ , watches her shoulders tense, her mouth form a grimly thin line, her eyes darken a little. When the message is over, there’s a pause, and Ginny is glaring in to the distance. Luna hesitantly squeezes her hand to bring her back. “Why are you mad?”

Ginny blinks, the anger draining out of her in a breath, and says carefully, “I’m not mad.”

Luna cocks her head. “Annoyed, then?”

“I just – I just wish she’d _think._ I wish you hadn’t had to hear that – I’m so _sorry,_ baby, that you did hear that, she’s so-“

 “It’s okay. I’d rather hear it and _know,_ rather than _not_ know that she feels that way about me and my – my issues.”

“But that’s my point!” Ginny explodes, and then closes her eyes, and inhales deeply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. I just – she has _no right –_ this isn’t just some diet fad, this isn’t you insisting on some weird trendy raw vegan shit, this is a _mental illness,_ and after all this time, she should know _fucking_ better than to treat you like you’re just being – being-“

“Awkward?”

“ _Yeah_.” Ginny hesitates, then says, “you _know_ it’s bullshit, right? You know that you’re not being awkward, you know that you’re not – a burden, or whatever it is you’re thinking, right?”

Luna sighs. “I know that I _want_ to believe that. And that objectively, somewhere deep down, I _do_ know that, but…”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt?”

“Exactly.”

Ginny presses her lips together, and wraps her arms tighter around Luna, who shuffles round so that it’s a proper cuddle. For a while, they sit in an embrace, as the light in the room narrows in to a thin, pinkish strip across the wall, before fading fast in to the growing darkness. The gloom is thick and cool and pressing before either of them speak again, but Luna still feels cocooned in her little bubble in Ginny’s arms.

“Angel, I need to ask some difficult questions about food and tomorrow. And it can wait, but we should talk about it at some point.”

“Now is okay,” Luna says quietly, pressing her ear against Ginny’s chest so that she can hear the comforting _thump-thump-thump_ of her heart.

“Mealtimes. Would it help it we stuck to your meal plan tomorrow, and had lunch at one like usual?”

Luna bites her lip to stop herself from protesting that she doesn’t want to be _awkward._ “Yes, but, your mum said-“

“Would it help if we stayed in tomorrow? Did our own thing?”

“I-“ Luna is floored by the offer, because she knows what Ginny would be giving up, knows how much Christmas Day with her whole family means to her, and that the thought of seeing her brothers, Harry and Hermione again soon was what got her through her latest Bad Day. “I can’t ask you to do that. You love Christmas Day.”

“I love you more,” Ginny says immediately, pulling her in a little closer.

Tears prick in Luna’s eyes, only this time they aren’t tears of frustration, misery or stress – this time, it’s because Ginny _loves_ her, and sometimes Luna fails to appreciate just _how_ strongly Ginny loves. She loves with everything she has – a protective, adoring, wholehearted kind of love, that overwhelms and shelters and inspires Luna to be kinder, braver, _better._ It’s the best and purest kind of love that Luna could wish for.

“Maybe, we can go to your mum’s in the evening? When the food part is over?” Luna suggests, because love involves compromise and the thought of Ginny being so sacrificial on _Christmas Day_ makes guilt curdle in her stomach.

“Okay. But it’s okay if that’s too much. Don’t put that kind of pressure on yourself.”

“Okay. I love you,” Luna whispers, and even in an undertone, the words sound big and brave against the darkness.

“I love you too. So, so much.”

It’s another hour or so before they finally move. Ginny lifts Luna with an ease and strength at odds with her smaller stature, and they spend a while poring over Luna’s book of ‘Safe Recipes’ for dinner. They settle on a minestrone soup, and before long, they’re dicing vegetables side by side in the kitchen – courgettes, carrots, onion, garlic, celery. Ginny distracts Luna, whilst the soup bubbles away in the pan, with a long-winded and much-embellished tale about her harrowing experiences last-minute shopping. They take steaming bowls through to the living room, and eat the hot, delicious soup with warm, crusty bread, under the lights of the Christmas tree and in front of an episode of Riverdale – because it’s complete trash, but it’s still gripping enough that it manages to keep Luna’s attention on the plot, and not the liquid she’s spooning in to her mouth.

It’s an evening like any other – they wash and dry up together, scooping bubbles from the washing up bowl, and blowing them at each other’s faces. Luna works the knots out of Ginny’s shoulders, and in return she massages Luna’s feet and hands, and they end up cuddled together under a blanket on the sofa, communicating in hushed voices and gentle kisses.

(It’s an evening Luna could never have envisaged earlier, and even though the warm weight of the soup in her stomach isn’t exactly _comfortable_ , Ginny’s wrapped around her like an octopus, showering her with affection, and Luna knows that whatever tomorrow brings, _she will get through it_ ).

* * *

 

Ginny is already awake, one arm propping up her head and legs thrown carelessly across the mattress. Everything is a little softer in the light of the weak winter sun, and the glow catches on Ginny’s vivid hair, dancing golden and amber on her curls. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, but they light up when they meet Luna’s gaze, and her mouth curls up in to the sweetest of smiles.

“Morning, beautiful,” her voice is scratchy, but it’s still the loveliest sound Luna’s ever heard, and she thinks vaguely to herself that this is what love feels like – this warm, precious, comforting adoration that curls around her heart like a gentle embrace.

“Merry Christmas.” Luna leans up to press a kiss to the corner of Ginny’s mouth, but Ginny catches her chin, cradles the back of her head like she’s something exquisite, and keeps her there in a long, slow kiss that fills Luna’s entire body with a joy so pure that it threatens to overflow out of her mouth in a giggle.

“I love you,” Ginny murmurs against her lips.

“I love you too.”

They have a slow, quiet morning, full of tender embraces, forehead kisses, and loving words. The Christmas tree lights twinkle, and the log fire fills the room with a blazing warmth that casts frolicking shadows across the walls. Around ten, Ginny entwines their fingers, and asks, with a lightness that belies the heaviness of the situation: “pancakes? Or d’you want to stick to your usual?”

Luna closes her eyes against the pangs of guilt that stir with the pangs of hunger, and for a second, imagines a world where she could eat Ginny’s delicious, piping hot, thick and fluffy pancakes, and not hate herself for it the second it passed her lips.

But she knows herself, and knows that the panic stirring in her chest at even the thought of that much food will _erupt_ if she forces anything. More than that, she knows her girlfriend, and knows that Ginny is the kindest, most supportive and understanding soul she’s blessed to know. “My usual,” she says quietly.

They move in to the kitchen, and Ginny hops up on the counter to whip up her pancake mix, swinging her legs. Luna chops her fruit in to a bowl, spoons a little yoghurt over it, and then, whilst Ginny cooks up a stack of pancakes, she sits in front of the piano, and begins to play.

_“Oh, the rising of the sun, and the running of the deer-“_

Luna can’t help but smile, because she loves Ginny with her entire heart and soul, but _Lord_ , she can’t hold a tune to save her life. She joins in anyway, “ _the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.”_

“Sweet singing from _one_ of us, at least,” Ginny says with a grin, coming to stand behind her, and pressing a kiss to Luna’s neck. “Pancakes are done.” There’s flour on her cheek, and Luna strokes it off gently. Some clings to her fingertips, and she holds it in front of Ginny’s mouth.

“Make a wish,” she says softly.

“You and your wishes,” Ginny rolls her eyes fondly, but obediently blows the flour off, squeezing her eyes shut.

The two of them eat in bed – a rare treat for the two of them, since Ginny is usually up with the morning sun for training – in a nest of blankets and cushions. Luna’s heart is so full that she _has_ to reach for a sketchpad, and before long, she’s captured her girlfriend mid-laugh, her pyjama shirt (white, emblazoned with “HI, I’M BI” in blue, pink and purple) slipping off one shoulder, revealing the small, crescent moon on the edge of her collarbone – her own permanent Luna.

Later, Neville pops by with a bouquet of sunflowers, because they’re Luna’s _favourite,_ though where he got hold of sunflowers on bloody _Christmas Day_ , Luna can’t imagine. She squeezes him tight in an embrace, and blinks back tears when he tells her she’s strong and brilliant and brave. She takes the flowers to put them in a vase as Neville and Ginny chat, and catches murmurs of their conversation through the kitchen door.

“-you’re doing it tonight?”

“Yes. That’s the plan. I wanted-“

“-I’m so _excited_ for you both.”

“I’m so _nervous_ -“

Luna frowns a little, casting her mind back to try and think if Ginny had mentioned any special plans for tonight. Before she gets very far though, the phone rings, and it’s Harry – they have a brief, but heartfelt conversation, before she hears Draco in the background, panicking about champagne, and insists that Harry goes and reassures his boyfriend that _no, Mr Weasley won’t care that this isn’t the bottle that cost almost as much as an average salary_. She hangs up with a genuine smile on her lips, the whispered conversation completely gone from her mind.

* * *

 

“Are you _sure_ this is okay?” Ginny asks for the fifth time.

“ _Yes_ ,” Luna says, and though she’s laughing, inside she’s high-key freaking out, because any minute now, Molly will come to the door, and she’ll be thrown in to an environment that’s so _focused_ around food. She’s not ready to have to hear people moaning about how full they are, about how much they ate, about how they _really shouldn’t_ have another slice of cake, but will anyway – because even this vicarious interaction with food makes her feel sick and uncomfortable.

But Ginny is vibrating with excitement at seeing her family, and the radiant happiness on her face as George opens the door, lifts her in to a hug, and spins her around with a whoop, only strengthens Luna’s resolve.

To her surprise though – it’s not overwhelming and difficult. That’s not to say that it’s _easy,_ because _nothing_ feels easy when your brain will _not_ stop screaming calorie counts and overanalysing tiny interactions every single second. But nobody turns to stare at her as she walks in to a room practically overflowing with Weasleys and their various partners – there are no awkward questions about where she’s been for the past five hours, and Hermione immediately and seamlessly draws her in to a conversation about Roman mythology. Ginny is tucked in the corner with George, Harry, and Bill, presumably engrossed in a sports conversation judging by Harry’s intense eye contact and Bill’s enthusiastic gestures. Even so, she glances over at Luna every now and then, checking in with a reassuring smile, and every time she does, Luna feels the tension slide out of her shoulders a little more.

Ron and Charlie come over to join them, and suggest a game of Monopoly. Hermione immediately counters their proposal with Trivial Pursuit, and their shouts attract Ginny’s little group over too. Before long, everybody’s bickering over board games, and Luna is surrounded by her friends – by people who love her and aren’t making a big deal over her mental health and who she feels so _comfortable_ around – and she feels, not happy exactly, but the kind of _content_ that she can recognise that this is not the low she thought it was going to be.

Eventually, they settle on Catan, and Luna’s about to team up with George – because her smarts and his pluck make for a winning combination, when she catches sight of Draco slipping in to the kitchen. She follows him without really thinking about what she’s doing, ignoring George’s noise of betrayal, and ducks in to the kitchen too.

It’s so much quieter in the kitchen, away from the excitable cries of friends and family. Every surface is covered in dirty dishes, or leftover piles of food, and Luna’s stomach twists sharply, the _safe-warm-pleasant_ feeling popping like a balloon, and leaving a saggy heap of apprehension. But then, she catches sight of Draco, who’s leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at the surplus turkey with a strained expression.

(It’s an expression that she recognises, though she wishes that she didn’t. And it’s the fact that she recognises it that gives her the courage to move further in to the kitchen – further away from the security of the living room).

“Hello,” she says softly, mirroring his position on the other side of the room.

Draco jumps a little, eyes snapping to her face, his guard instantly up. He nods at her, “evening.”

“I suppose it is.” Luna’s heart aches a little for him, because he’s holding on to the countertop for dear life, his knuckles bright white. “Is everything alright?”

“Of course. I’m fine.” His voice is carefully measured and brisk, the perfect example of someone who has learnt how to mimic stable mental health, who’s suppressed their feelings for too long. (She supposes, what with everything that she knows about the Malfoys, that this isn’t that surprising given his home environment). “And yourself? Harry said that you weren’t feeling well earlier?”

“Oh, I’m alright. Or at least, I will be.” There’s a pause, and it occurs to her that they’ve never been alone together before. Draco looks at a loss for what to say, his gaze darting every now and then at the stacks of food. Luna takes a breath, and says, anxiety building with every word, “are you – are you sure everything’s okay? Because I – I get it, if it’s not? I – I have issues with food too.” She trails off, has to force herself to breathe in, and then drags her gaze back to Draco’s face.

He’s watching her, and it feels like she’s watching him drown, and she’s thrown him a lifeline, but he’s refusing to reach out and _take_ it. Her heart beats painfully fast, as she remembers all the reasons _why_ the two of them have never really been friends, how spiteful and malicious he’s capable of being.

He clears his throat and looks down. “I don’t – I. I don’t know why it’s happening now. It hasn’t happened for so long.” His grip tightens even further if possible, and his jaw clenches.

She instantly feels unbearably guilty for thinking ill of him, because she _knows_ he’s changed – she knows how hard he worked to become someone _better,_ and she steps forward. “That’s okay. That’s part of what recovery means. You have people who love you to help you through this.” He flinches a little, and Luna’s heart clenches again as the understanding dawns on her. “You haven’t told Harry?”

He shakes his head minutely – finally raising his eyes to meet hers, and it’s Luna’s turn to flinch, because she’s never seen him so look so vulnerable. And she hates it. She never thought she’d hate it when she finally saw him stripped bare of his defensive shields, but it’s awful and painful and devastating.

“Why not?” her voice is much smaller now.

Draco shakes his head again, looking more and more like a lost, little schoolboy. “I don’t – he’s got _so_ much on his plate already, I can’t – it’s not even an issue usually. I don’t even know how to tell him.”

“But he loves you. He’ll make time for you, he loves you _so_ much.”

“I don’t want him to _have_ to. I _want_ this to not be an issue, I don’t-“

“Draco,” Luna says sharply, and, to her surprise, he stops spiralling – out loud, at least. “ _Tell him._ He’ll get it. He’s _good_ and _kind_ , and he _always_ checks in with me to see how I’m doing, if he knew this was an issue for you, then he would be the most supportive. Give him that chance. If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for _him._ ”

There’s a silence that stretches between them, and it feels like the moment when you drop a glass, before it hits the floor and shatters – the moment when you might _just_ be able to clasp it back between your fingers.

“Okay,” Draco says at last. “I – I’ll try.”

(The anxiety slides away, like loosening ropes around her chest, and she _breathes_.)

Her smile is uncontrollable, and she _wants_ to tell him how proud she is, that this is a Big Deal, that she cares, but she always knows that it would be too much, too soon, and so instead, she nods, and turns to leave the kitchen.

“Luna – I – thanks,” Draco calls after her, and her smile widens.

“Any time. I mean that,” she says, trying to convey everything she wants to say in that one, over-used but still fully-intentioned phrase.

“You too.”

The door opens suddenly, and the noise from the living room pours in as Ginny steps through the door. She catches sight of Luna first, and moves forward, her expression concerned and caring. “Are you alright, ang-“ Her gaze slides past Luna to Draco, and she narrows her eyes at him. He shrinks back a little at the unbridled protectiveness in them, and slides past them both, back in to the living room.

“What was that about?”

“It’s not what you think. I’ll tell you later.” Ginny still looks worried, and so Luna drops a kiss on her lips, sliding her arms around her waist, and drawing her closer. Ginny responds enthusiastically, and for a few minutes, Luna’s heart is _glowing_ , filling her up with a warmth and a light so powerful, it shines in to all the dark and murky corners of her brain, every anxious pocket of her lungs, every insecurity and fear momentarily displaced with _love-joy-pleasure-adoration._

“I love you,” she says, breaking away from the kiss breathlessly, the words spilling out. “I love you more than I ever thought possible.”

Ginny bites her slightly swollen lips, her mouth fighting against a smile – it’s her self-conscious but overwhelmingly pleased smile – one of Luna’s favourites – and she _has_ to kiss it. This time, they only break apart when someone clears their throat, and not even the sight of Molly Weasley can suck away Luna’s cloud of happiness.

“Mum, hi,” Ginny says, her cheeks flushed, but she’s still beaming too.

“Hello, darling, how are you?” Molly says, and there’s a conversation that Luna zones out of, because she gets entirely distracted by Ginny: the way the setting sun haloes around her hair, the expressiveness of her hands as she speaks, the lovely sound of her voice as it rises and falls. (Ginny is thoroughly beautiful, and Luna is helplessly, irrevocably in love.)

But then-

“You look well, Luna, dear,” Molly says, and she’s smiling, but all Luna can hear is _fat fat fat,_ and she feels like for all the progress she’s made today, this one phrase has just pushed her right back to the start line. Suddenly, she’s battling thoughts that she hasn’t had to tackle in months, where ‘well’ means ‘healthy,’ and ‘healthy’ means recovery, which means weight gain, which is _bad bad bad bad._ There’s not enough air in the room, and Luna is _so_ frustrated – mostly at herself for reacting so badly to a well-meaning compliment, but also at Molly, because _everybody else_ had managed not to comment on her appearance, why couldn’t Molly just _butt out_?

She tracks everything she’s eaten today, counting and recounting calories, trying to reassure herself that it wasn’t Too Much, and that even if it was, that’s allowed too – the world will not end, no one meal will impact anything _that_ drastically, she’s _fine, she’s fine, she’s fine_ –

Ginny’s hand on her arm is what brings her back to reality, but the room now feels much colder. She glances at Ginny’s concerned face, and tries to smile, but feels her lungs constricting. Ginny’s face contorts in to something _dark_ and _angry,_ and she turns on Molly, who’s examining Luna’s outfit with a less-than-thrilled expression.

“ _Enough,_ ” Ginny barks, and both Luna and Molly jump. “Stop this, mum. Stop being so fucking _inconsiderate_ about my girlfriend, who’s too polite to say anything, but I _will_ -“

“ _Language_ , Ginny,” snaps Molly. “What on _Earth_ are you talking about?”

“I _specifically_ told you not to say that word-“

“You’re being ridiculous, _calm down-“_

“I _told_ you,” Ginny hisses. “She’s been having a difficult time lately, the holidays are always hard, and you _know_ that recovery isn’t linear-“

“Yes, but I just thought-“ blusters Molly, but Ginny cuts her off sharply.

“ _No,_ mum. You weren’t thinking at all. Because if you’d thought at all before opening your mouth, you would have realised how _hurtful_ you were being – and it’s not just now – the message you left yesterday – I just – I don’t understand how you’re capable of caring _so_ little that you can’t even _ask_ what Luna needs!”

(Luna doesn’t know how to feel. It means the world that Ginny would defend her even against her own family, but _this_ isn’t what she wants. _This_ is just skyrocketing her anxiety, upsetting the people she loves, not solving _anything._ ) “G – love – it’s okay,” Luna touches Ginny’s arm.

“It’s _not,_ Lu-“

“ _Please_ , stop. You’re not _listening-“_

Ginny opens her mouth to retort, and then freezes. She closes her mouth, visibly swallows, and closes her eyes. “You’re right, angel. I’m sorry.” She hesitates, then slides an arm around Luna’s waist. “What do you need?” she says in a lower voice, “we can leave, if that would help.”

Luna shakes her head, because she doesn’t know what she needs, but she does know that she can’t leave it like this. Not just because it’s Christmas, and Christmas is for love and family and friendship, but also because she hates the unhappy expression on Molly’s face, and the fact that she’s the cause of a dispute. She’s not _okay_ – the thought of food is still making her heart erratic and panicky, Molly’s words are still ringing in her ears, and she will probably have a minor breakdown when she gets home. But for now, what she _really_ needs is to be around her favourite people, and to try and recapture that lovely, safe, warm feeling from before.

(She’s going to be okay.)

“Can we go back to the other room?”

Ginny nods immediately, entwining their hands, and pressing a kiss to their joined fingers. Luna reaches out her other hand to Molly, who stares at her in shock for a minute, but then hastily accepts. The three of them settle back in to the living room, where they have moved on to Charades – Percy is currently gesticulating violently at his groin, swaying a little on his feet, and the guesses are coming fast and thick. Ginny settles on the floor by the sofa, and, when Luna plops down in to her lap, wraps her arms around Luna’s waist and playing with her hair.

It’s a little rocky at first, but the evening goes on, Luna feels herself beginning to relax again. There’s something about watching Harry and George act out _Dirty Dancing,_ by George hurling himself in to Harry’s arms and crushing him to the floor, that forces her anxieties to settle down just a little. Ginny plaits and braids and twists her hair, and Luna slips further and further down in to her lap, growing drowsier in the warm, fairy-light-lit room. On the opposite side of the sofa, Draco and Harry are curled together, and Draco shoots her a half-smile that warms her heart. Eventually, board games switch in to films, and _A Muppet’s Christmas Carol_ begins to play; Luna finally gives in to sleep around the time that the ghost of Christmas present arrives, and her last memory before she drifts off, is Ginny murmuring, “I love you, baby.”

(She’s going to be okay.)

* * *

 

It’s more than a little disorientating to wake up in their own bed the next morning, the sun pouring in through the blinds. Ginny is sprawled across the sheets next to her, still breathing deeply, and snuffling a little with every inhale. Luna can’t help the fond smile that spreads across her face, and it’s instinctive the way she reaches for the sketchpad in her bedside table.

As she draws, her mind journeys, and she begins sifting through the events of yesterday, trying to figure out where her mental health is _at_ today. Yesterday was A Lot, but she actually slept through the night, rather than staying awake and beating herself up over every single action, and the lack of sleep deprivation means she’s a lot more rational than she usually is after a day like yesterday. Even Molly’s words sting a little less in the peace and safety of her bedroom, and she manages to resist the urge to go and weigh herself, to make a list of everything she ate yesterday and _punish_ herself for every single calorie, to go and devour every single thing in the kitchen – she resists it all; she breathes and draws and breathes, makes a note of the things she’s going to have to bring up in her next CBT session, takes her medication, and breathes. She’s _coping,_ she’s managing, and this is not a relapse.

When Ginny finally wakes up, bleary-eyed and affectionate, she beams when Luna tells her what she’s managed to do – or _not_ do, this morning. “I’m so _proud_ of you, baby.” She peppers kisses on Luna’s thighs, beautiful and open and loving in the sunlight, and Luna feels _weak_ with how much she loves her.

They spend a lazy couple of hours in bed – they cuddle, make love, and cuddle some more, entirely engrossed in each other. It’s midday before either of them make a move to _leave_ the bed, and even then, Ginny only pads across to the wardrobe to retrieve something, before coming straight back.

“I meant to do this yesterday,” she begins, kneeling on the mattress in front of Luna, an uncharacteristically nervous expression on her face, and Luna’s heart leaps in anticipation.

“Angel. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life. You’re brilliant and beautiful and bright, and you make me so, so proud every single day. Your strength in the face of everything you deal with on a daily basis makes _me_ stronger, because you inspire me so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m not interested in a future that you’re not a part of. I’m so grateful and blessed that you’re my girlfriend – every day, I wake up next to you, and think about how _lucky_ I am, and I want to have that feeling for the rest of my life. I want to wake up to my best friend and lover and favourite person, and be the one to cherish you, and keep you safe, to kiss you and to make love to you, I – I want to make you proud. Luna, angel, will you marry me?”

Luna had known it was coming from the moment Ginny had started speaking, because Ginny only gushes and waxes lyrical when she’s drunk, but it didn’t feel _real_ until she caught sight of the ring. It’s a simple silver band, set with a smooth-cut moonstone, and it’s so perfect – so _them –_ that tears spring to her eyes. She nods, the words not coming immediately, then clears her throat, and nods faster still.

“Yes – yes – yes – a thousand times yes –“ her voice cracks as she flings her arms around Ginny, and they’re both crying and laughing and all Luna can feel is her heart near exploding with _joy love elation adoration happy happy happy –_

(There are always going to be difficult times in recovery. Maybe holidays will be hard for the rest of her life. But, there is an up after every down, there is always a reason to keep fighting, and Ginny will never stop reminding her of how loved and appreciated she is. She is going to be okay.)

**Author's Note:**

> SO. I meant to post this before Christmas, but I'm useless, and so it's late and unedited and a bit of a mess (like me). Apologies for the lack of actual plot. Apologies for inevitable typos, potential ooc-ness, etc. - this is my first time writing Ginny/Luna, and it probably shows, but hey. I might edit tomorrow? If you're gonna crit, pls don't be too harsh bc Luna is me and I am currently fragile.  
> (@me, why are you posting new content when you have stuff to update you lazy shit)
> 
> THE IMPORTANT PART:  
> If you're struggling with an eating disorder/disordered eating/body image issues this Christmas, then please know that you are not alone, that you are important, and that you are loved. Talk to someone - do not struggle with this on your own, because you deserve to be supported and understood. Remember that it's not an all-or-nothing thing. Your comfort matters. YOU matter.  
> If you're in the UK, [Beat](https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/) has a helpline open over the holidays. 
> 
> If you want to support a loved one, Beat have a tonne of advice on their website. Alternatively:  
> (1) Think about the language you're using when you talk about food/calories/size/weight. Maybe avoid talking about people's appearances - even in a positive way.  
> (2) It might help to stick to regular meal times and food options. Be accommodating!  
> (3) Listen to what they need. It's so hard to talk about ed stuff, so be patient, compassionate and understanding.  
> (I'll get off my soapbox now)
> 
> If y’all have any questions, or requests or if you just wanna chat, pls hit me up on [tumblr](little-old-rachel.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/littleoldrachel) to get in touch!
> 
> And finally, Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate, if not, then happy holidays, love always & take care xoxo


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